


Illuminate

by randombitsofstars



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Eventual Romance, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-23
Updated: 2016-03-23
Packaged: 2018-05-28 16:02:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6335290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/randombitsofstars/pseuds/randombitsofstars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His words were colored like raindrops, clear and variegated all at once. They caught Sherlock’s attention like a crime scene, a puzzle waiting to be completed. And held his attention like the music of his violin, a soliloquy meant to be heard.</p><p>No, John did not seem particularly special in the beginning, not in the way his voice was.</p><p>It was illuminating.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Illuminate

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Colors](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1606910) by [Quesarasara](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quesarasara/pseuds/Quesarasara). 



> This is my first foray into the John/Sherlock fandom, so be kind.  
> I know the first chapter doesn't make much sense yet, but don't worry, it will.
> 
> Enjoy reading!

Sherlock had never been like the other kids. He knew that, they knew that, anyone he had come in contact with knew that.

Sherlock was fine with being different. At seven years old, he loved analyzing the world just the way he saw it. His parents were encouraging, setting Sherlock and Mycroft off into the countryside every day, urging them to explore new things. And Sherlock did. Mycroft preferred to sit in the golden rod, reading books - literally thousands of them - on many obscure topics.

But Sherlock, he observed. He cataloged the migration of the butterflies, the nesting habits of the birds that lived by their neighbor’s field, and even the quantity of snow that would force Mycroft to don a scarf.

At the age of two, Sherlock could read basic phrases. By the age of three, Sherlock was skimming paperbacks. And on the eve of Sherlock’s fifth birthday, he finished his first complete novel.

It was at the age of seven that Sherlock talked to Mycroft about the colors.

“Mycroft?” Sherlock asked. He paused in his observations of the ants in the clover patch. They were lifting grains of soil many times their weight. _Fascinating._

“Yes, Sherlock?” Mycroft drawled. He let out a long-suffering sigh, and barely peeked over his copy of _The Art of War_. Sherlock was used to his brother’s annoyance, and pressed on.

“Why is ‘K’ the color and texture of cirrocumulus clouds?”

Mycroft raised one brown eyebrow, laying his book face down onto the left leg of his trousers. “Whatever do you mean, Sherlock?”

Sherlock finished counting the cluster of ants ( _thirty-four, six less than yesterday_ ) and moved on watch the aphids resting on nearby plants. “I suppose you’re right, Mycroft,” Sherlock conceded, a bit miffed Mycroft hadn’t given a better response. “‘K’ is closer to the hue of the grain on the other side of you.” Sherlock acknowledged, lifting his head to inspect the fronds. _He’s still wearing that dreadfully condescending expression that he makes whenever I’m wrong. Quite intolerable._

Mycroft slowly turned his head to look over Sherlock’s shoulder, where the wheat was swaying in the breeze. Slowly, his gaze fixed back on Sherlock again. He was still wearing the same perplexed expression. Sherlock rolled his eyes, annoyed that Mycroft was being nitpicky.  _It's not like the hue of the clouds is hugely different from the wheat. Even I get 'I" mixed up with 'K' sometimes._

“Are you talking about the _letter_ ‘K’?” Mycroft questioned, his red book still resting firmly on his thigh.

Sherlock cocked his head to the side, giving Mycroft his best _of course_ glare. It was quite patronizing, even at the age of seven. “Yes, Mycroft, do keep up,” Sherlock snapped, tired of his brother playing dumb.

“The letter ‘K’ does not have any particular coloring, Sherlock, unless you’re speaking of a work of art I’m not familiar with.” Even at the age of fourteen, Mycroft had perfected the most vexingly flawless balance of haughtiness and detachment. It infuriated Sherlock.

“Never mind.” Sherlock spat. If Mycroft was going to be deliberately obtuse, Sherlock wouldn’t humor him.

Sherlock nodded to himself as he counted insects, convinced that the colors were yet another topic he would have to research himself. It seemed that the few people he had questioned about the subject of the colors all decided to play dumb - even his brother. _I assume they’re all willing to just accept that the colors simply exist. Well, I am not._

He decided to delete the whole conversation between him and Mycroft. It wasn’t important; like the others, Mycroft was just being particularly slow.

But even once the memory was deleted, the colors never went away.

**Author's Note:**

> Please leave comments or kudos if you liked it so far!  
> I made this short to see if there's any interest - if people seem to like the story so far, I'll definitely continue to publish the rest.  
> I'm sorry updates are so slow, I'm working on a lot! For gifs and asks and anything else, come swing by my [tumblr!](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/randombitsofstars)


End file.
